Aliens and Machetes

This evening while standing over a sink of dishes and feeling like the rug had been yanked out from under me, my husband asked if I still feel the same level of intense heartache that I felt two years ago. Today marks two years since TJ’s Celebration of Life and somehow it feels like it was but a moment ago that we stood by his casket shaking hands & receiving hugs from family and friends who had traveled from near and far. I can see the table of flowers, each hand-selected by attendees and added to the collection; I see the twigs and branches with little lights flanking his casket; I see the drawings made by his cousin that capture his likeness with such exactitude that it jumps off the paper; I see the Hawaiian shirts and the scarves and the fedoras; I see the ocean of green. I hear the bell choir pIaying “Fly Me to the Moon”; I hear the words of those telling of times spent with TJ; I see and feel and surrender to the tears. All as if not a day has gone by. And yet I feel every single one of the past 738 days. With all of these memories taking one more inevitable step backward into the past, each agonizing day mounts pound by pound onto my shoulders. They weigh on me like an inescapable yolk of sadness that I will be hitched to for the entirety of my life.

I didn’t really answer that question. My husband went on to say that the grief isn’t as hard, especially if he doesn’t allow himself to be pulled in to certain memories and certain songs which are often the making of a day of torment and tears. “You know what I mean?” he asked. A nearly inaudible “yes,” is all I could muster.

For me, the sadness is a permanent heaviness that I truly know has become part of my DNA. Sometimes I feel it has taken on its own life form and grows uncontrollably inside of me like that thing coming out of Sigourney Weaver in “Alien”. I have no idea it’s there about to take over me and everyone who comes in contact with me. I meet that alien on a regular basis, sometimes with a machete slicing off its head, sometimes with nothing stronger than a slap in the face only to leave it more inflamed and ferocious, and sometimes with no weapons at all allowing it to have its way.

Last Friday at work something happened to a patient that brought the familiar opponent across my path and challenged my strength. It said, “Remember when Rachel found TJ seizing in bed?” I cried for an hour in my office. Clearly I had left my machete at home. Then last week while discussing the happiness of an upcoming family wedding all I could think about was TJ not being there. That time I brought one of my stronger weapons and was able to shove those tears down my throat so hard and fast that hopefully they (the alien Grief and my family) didn’t see it coming. Today at work we were simply having our usual morning meeting discussing changes and policies, yada yada yada….then BAM, I could feel it welling up inside. I quickly did my little trick of pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to help stop the tears. It doesn’t work as well as pressing on the tip of one’s nose but it is considerably less obvious (unless one is in the middle of talking in which case both techniques have their drawbacks.) But once in the safety of my home Grief came charging back, running over me like  a runaway train. I never know what arsenal I will have with me on any given day. It’s always a surprise- just like the appearance of Grief itself.

Grief knows no boundaries, not of time nor of place. It is random and merciless. It doesn’t care what you’re doing. You can never be certain you’ll be able to get through anything- not a radio song, not a lunch out with friends, not a day at work, not even a simple task like vacuuming. And there is no telling how intensely it will hit. It may be a soft sigh with a longing in the heart, or it might be falling off the cliff into a torrent of tears while gasping for breath and drowning in those tears.

Back to my husband’s question: I can say the only thing which has gotten less intense and easier to endure- “softer” as some describe chronic grief- is the time it takes to settle myself. I no longer suffer through all day fits of weeping, literally pulling at my clothes, raking my face, sobbing until I have no voice, shaking uncontrollably, and falling to the floor. Nowadays it can last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours and if it is an all day affair it is more a mixture of grooves, ditches, and valleys interspersed with still planes. Any one of those early grief markers may be present, but not usually all of them at once. This is chronic grief. No longer acute; no longer desperate; but always still with me.

Grief is not linear. Grief is a monster, an alien. And it will never go away. It’s always lurking in the shadows and in the light. I may or may not have my machete. Like today, on this 738th day since we gave tribute to a life well lived: it was there, it showed up, I shut it down temporarily, and it came back for round 2.

Bottom line? I live with an alien whose torment is easier to pass through, but it is no less torment than it was on day one.

To see a video tribute to TJ, our treasure in heaven, click here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8J3QgoTgM1w